


Fire Is Her Water

by alacarton



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Future Fic, Next-Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alacarton/pseuds/alacarton
Summary: “I wanted to join the Templars. My father said no.”She'd left Skyhold looking for answers. She hadn't expected the ones she'd found.





	1. Chapter 1

The rain bounced on the canvas canopy, the steady drumming a comfort as the wagon trundled on. The dwarf next to her was doing his best to draw answers from her, offering a kindly smile as he nudged her, willing her to speak.

“I’m not the most innocent guy around, but harbouring criminals isn’t my thing, alright?”

“I’m not a criminal!” The question was the one that broke her silence, dark eyes on fire as she turned to him. “Look, I just need to keep a low profile for a while, okay? If you aren’t happy with that, feel free to drop me off anytime.”

“So where did you come from, huh?”  
“I…” This was the first band of merchants she had come across; everyone else had either been traveller or hunter. She hadn’t needed a story, hadn’t needed to lie. But now…  _Andraste preserve her_. “I left home.” 

“A runaway, huh? How long have you been out here?”

“Two weeks, I think. I found a hunting band who let me travel with them for a few days, and then I moved on…camped out mostly. It was cold the first couple of nights but I made furs out of what I hunted and I-”

“Hunting? That’s pretty resourceful. How old are you anyway, kid?”

Her chest rose in pride, chin lifting. “Fourteen.” Her mother had always told her she was an exceptional shot with a bow, even from a young age. She had encouraged her to practice, and she was almost grateful now for the hours spent before Skyhold’s boards, launching arrows across the courtyard.

“Bit young to be out by yourself, aren’t you? Even if you are the Maker’s best shot.” 

“I can look after myself,” she spat, huddling tighter around her legs, glowering at him. “My mother taught me how to use a bow when I was young, and my father-“ she stumbled, unwilling to acknowledge  _anything_  postive towards him at this present time, “he taught me how to be  _resourceful._ ” 

“Mh.” The dwarf’s face was unconvinced, but he shrugged nonetheless. “Won’t your parents be worried about you, then?”

“Probably not.” It was a bare-faced lie, and she knew it. Her mother would have summoned a council by now, half the country would be looking for her and her father… _No._  She couldn’t think of him. He would be furious, nothing more, she was better off here, away from all of that. That was what she convinced herself, anyway. Her heart whispered that she knew she was wrong. Guilt be damned.

“I see…well, I’m Varric. Varric Tethras. If you’re going to stay with us for a while, I guess we should at least do exchanging names. Manners and all that.”

Her heart stopped. Maker be damned, how bad was her luck that the first person she ran into with the chance of transport was  _damned Varric Tethras._ Surely, by now, he would have mentioned…would have greeted her by her name. Her mother hadn’t seen him in years, she couldn’t remember the last time. She’d pretend not to know who he was, pretend she had not a clue, and she’d…hope to the Maker that he had not a clue either.

“Isabella. Call me Izzy.” The foreign name felt strange on her tongue. She had always been so proud of her own name. _Imogen Grace Rutherford_ , she had proudly proclaimed to a guard who had asked as a girl, flouncing with blonde curls around her.  _And don’t you forget it!_ She had always been so  _proud_  to be her father’s daughter. But that felt like an age ago now.

“Alright then, _Izzy_.” She exhaled, unaware she had even been holding a breath. It had worked. “You can travel with us, just as long as you don’t make trouble. Because believe you me, this old dwarf has had enough trouble for one lifetime. Simple, good trading, that’s what our business is.”

“You missed out honest.”

The grin that shone from him told her that had been no mistake. “Man’s got to make a living right?”

For the first time that evening, she managed a laugh, a short snort of approval. “Where are we headed anyway? Orzammar?”

Varric scoffed, wagging a finger. “Kid, I might  _look_  like a dwarf, heck I might even  _be_  a dwarf, but I don’t really do the dwarf thing. No, we’re headed to Kirkwall, via a few choice stops. Got a lot of business to do. Make my gold, and retire in peace is the plan.”

Kirkwall. The Free Marches. She didn’t know whether to leap for joy or to vomit in fear. It was what she had promised herself as she snuck from the gates that late night, tucked underneath the packages on a loaded cargo wagon - a change. _A chance_. Somewhere new…and somewhere with a very much intact Order. The home of the Templars of the Free Marches, how often has she seen that iron figure on the war table, her father’s carefully written notes with supplies pinned around them. And her mother’s history too, the Trevelyan’s of Ostwick. Maybe she’d head north, seek out her history there too. 

“Why’d you leave, anyway? Just out of curiosity.” She eyed him with a suspicious gaze, and he shrugged, offering her an innocent grin. “I’m a writer by trade, I like stories. Humour me.”

Imogen hesitated, unsure abou _t just_  how trusting she really was, before replying with a curt, quick tone. “I wanted to join the Templars. My father said no.” Varric’s face curled at her words, and she instantly huffed, folding her arms. “And I’m not interested in hearing  _your_  objections to it.”

“Oh, by all means, sign your life over to the Order. Just don’t get me involved. You might want to do your research first though. Your old man might have had a point.”

“He thinks he knows what is best for me. He treats me like I’m five years old!”

“Ah, teenage rebellion. It never dies, does it?” She huffed once more, glowering at him. “I’m not mocking you, kid. If it’s what you want to do, then go for it.”

_If it’s what she wanted to do_. That question she had no answer to, not even in her deepest convictions. She had been so sure, as she had sat around that first campfire after her escape, as she had hidden from the search parties and dodged Inquisition scouts. Now, however, two weeks later, she would have been a fool not to admit with some trepidation that doubt had begun to sneak into her mind. She had questions, so many questions - and so few answers.

She didn’t know what lay ahead. All she knew was that this was a long way from home, and she didn’t know whether she was ecstatic or terrified in equal measure.


	2. Chapter 2

Varric had taken a pledge to stop becoming suspicious (it wasn’t good for his blood pressure, so Bianca insisted), but he’d had an uneasy feeling ever since the girl had joined the party. She was pleasant enough, joking, mucking in and never complaining, and she was far too naive to be any kind of criminal. But something _nagged_ at him. Particularly when she raised an eyebrow to query him, or snapped a dry, sarcastic reply to his teasing. It was almost _familiar,_ in the strangest of ways.

Imogen, for her part, was still trying to remember to answer to _Izzy,_ and to curb the exuberance with which she corrected their travelling companions on all matters related to the Inquisition. She was _not_ Imogen Rutherford, but rather Izzy…someone. With uncaring parents, and a quaint, twee little farm as home. And shoulder length, dark brunette hair. _That_ had been her first move after leaving Skyhold, to take a dagger to the longest lengths of her hair, and she had stolen sachets from Dagna’s supply of powdered root that dyed it a deep brown. The first glimpse of her new persona had been a shock, the golden ringlets she had always had absent, and it had taken her breath at just how _alien_ she looked.

 They had travelled north, encircling Lake Calenhad (which, Imogen had insisted, was most _definitely_ shaped like a bunny on Varric’s map) before beginning on the path to Highever, where Varric’s ship awaited them to return to Kirkwall. She had marvelled at the spectacular views, enjoying the freedom that the travelling provided, and from the back of the cart, she watched as the world passed them.

The early trepidation had morphed into a nagging guilt that seemed to never leave her. By the fourth day, the shine on her excitement had begun to tarnish. As much as she attempted to push them from her mind, her family appeared, over and over, and she could not shake the feeling that she had done something terrible. It was not until she had wished her mother had been there to share the view of the sunset over Lake Calenhad that she truly began to feel _homesick_. Maker’s breath, she hadn’t expected that. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

“You didn’t tell me you were a _mage_ when we first me _._ ” Varric’s words caught her by surprise that evening. She was crouched over the bundle of sticks she had gathered, after insisting that the fire was _her_ responsibility that evening, and a gentle flicker of flame left her palm to light them. They came as he watched her, arms folded, and it was difficult to tell if he was impressed or surprised. 

There was an instant twitch from her, her good humour dropping as she eyed him cautiously. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, nothing personal. I didn’t mean it like that.” He sat just behind her on a log she had dragged to the fireside, stretching his feet towards the warmth of the beginning glow. “But I don’t get it. You’re a mage. And you _want_ to join the Templars. An apostate mage, no less.”

“Apostate is a word not used anymore. It’s derogatory. Mages should have choice.” She straightened up, nose rising in the air. “The Order should accept mages, as a mixed military service. Just because they do not at present isn’t reason to not try at all. It was one of the reformation policies, along with the establishment of the Healers, and the retirement service for Templars and…” She felt silent at Varric’s stare, a curious eyebrow raised, heat rising to her cheeks. _Shut up, Imogen. Just. Shut. Up._  
  
“For a kid from the backend of nowhere, you sure know a lot about all of this. You should join the Inquisition, they’d appreciate the support.”

Inwardly, Imogen sneered at the sheer irony. _Join the Inquisition? I’ve been a full fledged member since before I was born. No choice in that one._ She cleared her throat, doing her best to maintain her composure. “I-I was interested, I told you! I want to help end the mage-templar divide. What better than a mage templar?”

“I dunno, it’s just…in my experience, mages tend to run _away_ from Templars, not straight to their stronghold and ask to sign up.” The snort from the dwarf would have been insulting had it not been followed by such a fond look. “Ah, kid. I admire the optimism. You remind me of a friend. 

“Yeah?” She felt her guard drop as the dwarf relaxed back into the log, nodding, and she shuffled back to sit at his side.

“Yeah. She’s stubborn as an ass too. Course, she saved the world, so I suppose she gets to be. Inquisitor Trevelyan they call her, or the _Herald of Andraste._ Suppose she is officially Inquisitor Rutherford now though…she never did care for titles.”

Imogen’s heart seemed to pound in her throat, even the discussion of her mother beginning to lure homesickness back into her. _She must be worried. More than worried. She would be beside herself. Maker, the guilt was painful._ “You know the Inquisitor?”  
  
“Oh, sure. We met after the Conclave was destroyed. The world had gone to shit, hole in the sky demons spewing out…and along came the Herald of Andraste with her magical hand to save us all.” He chuckled to himself, before grinning at her. “She’s a good friend, not just because she saved my, and the whole of Thedas’ ass. We saw a lot together, trying to fix this world, putting down an ancient Tevinter magister. Seemed to travel to every edge of Ferelden _and_ Orlais closing rifts in the Veil, not to mention her traipsing into the Deep Roads for me. Not seen as much of her since she and Curly had the kids and settled down for a… _quieter_ life. Get a letter every couple of months though, keeps me updated.”

“Curly?” She knew the answer, even before the question left her mouth. She had heard Dorian use the name in jest, seen in written on missives and notes from Varric himself. Not to mention her mother’s teasing of the long-standing family trait. _‘I would have three children with golden curls..._

“Cullen. Longstanding nickname. Nice guy, has his moments. He’s the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, but I knew him before all that jazz. He was the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, back when the Champion and I were trying to…well, _fix shit._ The real start of the ‘all this shit is weird’ portion of my life.”

Trying to picture her father as a younger man did nothing to quench her homesickness. She supposed his hair would have been as bright as hers and his face crease-free, with the same lop-sided grin. It was strange to imagine him in the armour of the Templar Order…especially in a _skirt._ “Did you know him? In Kirkwall, I mean?”  
  
“Who, Curly?” Varric shrugged, leaning forward to prod at the fire now burning freely. “I guess. He was under Knight-Commander Meredith. Got sent there from Ferelden after…well, typical Templar shit. It all went to crap in Kirkwall anyway, he didn’t have much luck that way. Meredith was a monster, she treated the mages as criminals, the tension was insane. An apostate blew up the Chantry, Meredith ended up going crazy on red lyrium and the city nearly went up in flames. He looked after what was left of the Order before leaving for the Inquisition. Don’t blame him for leaving the Order, I’d have left too. All that Templar shit, harrowings, demons, blood magic, and for what? A lyrium addiction, bad dreams and a pious pout.” 

 _Bad_ dreams. She had always suspected her father had always suffered from nightmares, yet it was something he would never confess nor speak of. Her mother had always reassured that it was simply a _bad dream_ , nothing more, when she had found their bedside as a young child, convinced she had heard a yell in the night. She had always assumed that meant _she_ had imagined it…not…It made sense. He would rarely utter a word about his time in either the Ferelden Circle or Kirkwall, no matter how she would ask. As for the lyrium…that was another subject he was near mute on, other than confirming that it was standard procedure for templars, and warning her that it was _‘bad, bad news’_.

“Ain’t nearly as glamorous as you think.” Varric broke the silence, still watching her. “Sure, the armour’s nice and walking around with the Maker’s stick up your ass might be great, but there’s some serious catches. This _new_ Order is a lot less hard-nose, but…ah, I dunno. I’m not surprised your old man had objections. I’d object too if you were my kid. _Especially_ a mage.”

“It’s never been an issue at home.” It was a truthful admission, and Imogen did not realise _just_ how naive it sounded until it left her mouth. Her mother was the Inquisitor, Maker’s breath, being a _mage_ never seemed to matter. Nobody batted an eyelid around Skyhold at magic. Her father had been a Knight Commander after all, and the only concern he had ever displayed was her brothers setting the curtains alight, and his insistence that she follow her mother’s guidance. But out here, she had neither protection, and her lies at present ensured she was simply another young apostate.

“Well, I wouldn’t go opening your mouth about it out here. It’s a little different to…home. Wherever that is. And a mage that says she wants to become a Templar…heck, I don’t know if they’ll think you’re joking or trying to restart the civil war. Look, you’re a bright kid, there’s lots of opportunities. Still, if you like religion that much, don’t you fancy being a Chantry sister?”

She pulled a face, sticking her tongue out with a look of disgust. “Not enough adventure in that really, is there? The Chant of Light is great, but I don’t know if I could _behave_ well enough to pull off the sister act.”

That earned her a chuckle, and Varric threw his hands in the air, grinning at her. “Well, heck, why not just go straight for Divine then?”

“Divine Victoria is really not going to give up her seat easily, is she? Besides, she’s pretty formidable. As good as her jokes are.”

The words had slipped past her tongue before she could stop herself, and she saw the curiosity in Varric’s eyes light up once more. _Maker’s breath, she was going to have to improve this guise if anybody was truly going to believe her and-_

 “Kid, what did you say your last name was?”  
  
“I didn’t.” It was a sharp, instant reply, brought on by panic, and it did nothing to sate the curious look on Varric’s face, “Well, I’m going to go for a wander before the sun completely sets. Lots to see right?” She stretched as she stood, near skipping towards the path they had followed up to the clearing. “I’ll be back soon!” She made a beeline for the safety and privacy of the lonely path, cursing herself under her breath.

And left behind, a bemused Varric, who couldn’t help but feel he had some _investigating_ to do. _Andraste’s ass, why was his gut always right?_


	3. Chapter 3

By the end of her eighth day with Varric, Imogen’s mood had taken a sharp decline. The closer they came to Highever, and by proxy Kirkwall, the more her guilt seemed to pull at her. She could no longer even enjoy the view, drinking in the last sights of her homeland with a sad tinge, and she seemed to mope behind the caravan each day, carrying her own pack with short, emotionless answers to the chatter of the group. 

Her father had often impressed upon her that Ferelden would always have the most spectacular views, much to her mother’s amusement and eventual bickering. He would proclaim it loudly on each family vacation as they would travel and camp in the rural wilds and sleepy towns of the country, sharing stories from his rural childhood to adventures he and their mother had been on together, and teaching them to swim in the wild lakes of the vast countryside, their faithful mabari waiting at the water’s edge. Her mother would cook something impossibly delicious on the fire, and they would laugh as the stars edged the sun from the sky, before tucking snuggly with her siblings beneath canvas, giggling to themselves as their parents shared a kiss by the firelight. Those trips were some of the few times they had truly alone as a family, away from the pressure and responsibility of the Inquisition and the grandeur of Skyhold, and they were precious to her. Seeing those same views, without her father’s narration, her mother’s laughter and her brothers’ bickering, was strange, and it pulled her from any happiness she felt. _This was wrong,_ her heart cried. _So very wrong._

Varric told great stories, tales of the Blight and the Inquisition, of the Inquisitor and her companions, and it was only them which kept her spirits from crashing to rock bottom. She craved to hear about her mother, her father, the people she had known as family from being a young girl. In their absence, the tales were a comfort, however bittersweet. 

But the stories only fuelled lucid dreams, dreams that had quickly begun to cause her to wake tearful and shaken in the night. The worst had been seemingly benign. She walked the Fade in what resembled Skyhold, but not as she knew it. There were still works being done, still walls being repaired and stonework carved. The Great Hall was full of people, as it always was, buzzing with activity, and as she stepped into the bright sunlight, a young woman called her name from next to her. Olive skin, with large hazelnut eyes and long dark tresses, strong and lithe, leaning over the parapet to call below; _her mother_. She was beautiful, elegant, with the same mirthful laugh she had always had. Imogen reached to answer her, but realised her gaze was staring below, not to her, where a young girl glanced up, with round, full cheeks and short golden ringlets. She could barely have been out of infancy, toddling around on pudgy legs, and babbling nonsense in response, and with a bittersweet knot in her stomach, she realised it was _her_. Another voice spoke her name once more, a voice so familiar she _ached_ with longing to hear it, and the baby beamed as she tottered towards the adoring man beckoning her with a wide grin and open arms. Her father was younger, hair shorter and brighter, clad in armour she did not recognise, but it could be nobody else. He lifted the infant with a triumphant cheer as she grasped at him, both laughing together, and Imogen had no say as her legs carried her towards them, leaping the steps two at a time, and her hand reaching to grapple at the scene.

All that met her was the cold, dark silence of her tent, the howling wind curling around it as she awoke with a start. Quivering and overwhelmed, she had sobbed into the cold sleeping roll for the remainder of her wakening hours.

On the tenth day, they had arrived at Highever, with Varric’s ship due to depart in the morning. It was strange to see civilisation once again, even if it was a small town. Varric had agreed a deal with the local mayor to stay in the Chantry’s side room, she suspected with the promise of funding some local project. Highever was now an important port for Kirkwall, after all. The Chantry was basic but comfortable, and she had been given her own room above the main hall. The sight of a bed, however simple, made her want to weep, and the warmth of the hearth was more than welcome.

She ate wordlessly with the rest of the group, simple broth tasteless and bland, before excusing herself, using the reason that she was tired and wished to recharge before their voyage to Kirkwall. Varric said nothing other than a nod. He had been strangely quiet with her over the last forty-eight hours, not that she minded, but it was an odd change in his character. There had been several late night discussions and meetings with strangers, figures she could not recognise from peering from her tent, meetings she assumed were for business. Perhaps business was not as good as Varric made it out to be. Perhaps the journey to Kirkwall would not happen…

_No_. She _wanted_ to be revolted by the idea that she was backing out of this, cowering from… _opportunity?_ She had made her choice, had she not? What was the _point_ in all of this, this hurt, this ache, if not to achieve _something?_

It was with a restless heart that she curled beneath the sheets. Her sleep was fitful at best when it came. She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, fighting with the growing darkness around her, before finally slipping into the Fade.

Where was she? It was dark, murky, and the smell of sulphur seemed unshakable. This was not the Fade she was used to walking, not the Fade she had spent many peaceful hours. This was something far different, something _terrifying_. The crackle of magic followed her as she walked, cautious, guarded, radiating from her in simple fear.

_“You are only afraid that I will be a better Templar than you ever were!”_

The sudden noise scared her, set her heart racing. It was her own voice, although sharper and more shrill than she remembered, and it seemed to echo from _everywhere_. As she rounded a corner, there stood two shadowed figures, clearly engaged in argument, and with a sickening jolt, she realised just _which_ argument.

_“That is not what this is about…you have no idea the danger you are putting yourself in! You are throwing your life away, and for what?! No.”_ Her father’s voice was so achingly familiar, and the anger, the _frustration_ , in it hurt. 

_“At least I’d have a life to throw away! Instead of being stuck up here, trapped!”_

Her mother’s voiced seemed to come from nowhere, pleading with them both to calm, to step away, but it went unheeded, their verbal tussle continuing.

_“This is absurd. You aren’t to leave Skyhold, do you understand? Not until this nonsense idea has passed from your head! You cannot possibly understand the danger you would be in outside of these walls!”_

_“ What would you have said, if your parents had been as stubborn and unreasonable as you are being! If they had forbidden you from having dreams!”_

_“It. Is. Different. You are my child, and I will not allow it! That is my final decision.”_

_“I’ll show you. I won’t stay prisoner here forever! I hate you!”_

The figures disappeared in a brilliant flash of light and a sinister, horrid voice surrounded her, seemingly to burrow beneath her skin, twisting inside her mind and clawing at the very core of her. _Fear._ She pleaded as it hissed, tumbling over her own feet in her desperation to escape it, but the voice followed, growing louder and louder until it was a deafening scream in her ear.

She had tumbled from the bed in her panic, wakening with a cry, a pant on her breath, and her eyes slowly adjusted to the twilight around her. Her previous encounters with Fear had always been imagined situations, and the most terrible of them had left her shaken. But this… _this_ was too much. Too close to reality for her to be able to separate them. Too tender a wound to be clawed at.

The bed had been as comfortable as she could make it, but as she clambered back in and curled around herself, suppressing the shiver that passed through her, she longed for her bed at home, in the warmth of Skyhold. Her inner voice whispered that she was _homesick_ , a word she had all but attempted to eliminate from her vocabulary. Homesick for her brothers, for the friendly faces of the guard at the gates, for the musky books and dust-covered parchment of Skyhold’s fine library and the sun-drenched courtyards and garden. 

And perhaps, _just perhaps_ , homesick for the warm, lazy mornings she would tiptoe upstairs and sneak into bed beside her mother, a secret habit that neither seemed quick to forget, knowing fine well that both boys would soon join them, squeezing their way into what little space remained. Through a combination of pleading, nagging and a particularly swift nudge off the mattress by her mother, they would kick their father out of bed with demands for cocoa for all, and he would oblige with an entirely false groan, grinning as he was ordered towards the kitchen. They would lie and listen adoringly to their mother whilst she enthralled them with tales about her most recent travels, spell broken only by their father’s return, and the smell of sweet chocolate that filled the air…

It was absent now. Replaced by musty cloth and the sharp, sudden pain of loneliness. With a slow breath, Imogen let the memory slip from her mind, any warmth seeming to depart with it, and she could not bring herself to admit that the dampness on her pillow was there, never mind of her own making. She could no longer lay in bed, and grudgingly she pulled herself from it’s the warmth. Wrapping the blanket around her, she shuffled from the room, making it down the rickety stairs to the back of the main hall before voices made her halt.

The shine of amour in candlelight caught her eye, and it was seconds before she recognised the symbol of the Inquisition spread across shields perched against the wall, and the cloaks adorning the shoulders of the men gathered. There were many of them, too many to count quickly, and she recognised the Lieutenants talking to… _damn. Varric._

“Commander Cullen is engaged at present, Ser Varric, but I will let him know you are here.”

_Her father. Her father was here_. 

The air around her seemed to be draining, and she was suffocating, _choking_ , _she couldn’t breathe!_ Her hand found the wall, and she felt her legs move her from the crowd, falling backwards. She heard Varric’s voice call to her, but she couldn’t reply, tongue thick and immobile in her mouth.She couldn’t see him, couldn’t face him now. Not when she had made up her mind, Maker, _hadn’t she made up her mind_?

She was gone, fast as a bolt, disappearing through the crowded main hall and dashing back up the stairs, door slamming behind her. Varric groaned as she disappeared from sight, a sinking feeling rising within him. _Andraste’s tits._ So he’d been right all along, since his suspicions had started to rise, and the latest news had reached their travelling camp. His newest little companion was none other than the runaway eldest daughter of the Inquisitor and her Commander, for whom most of Ferelden was currently hunting. 

“Ah, shit _.” Cullen would hang him by the balls for this. “_ Why am I always right?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

_She had to leave._ The panic rising within her made her feel nauseous as she scrambled to pack the few items she carried, stumbling around the bare room. She would run, and keep running, and sneak aboard the ship in the morning. Once she was in the Free Marches, she could hide. They had no authority there, right? She couldn’t do this, couldn’t be caught, couldn’t _face_ him, let alone admit that…that she had been wrong? That he had been right?

Imogen knew it was true. _Perhaps that was why it hurt so much._

“Running away again?” Varric’s voice froze her in her tracks, halfway through stuffing her spare clothing back into her rucksack. She hadn’t heard him climb the stairs; how long had he been there? She met his gaze, eyes guilt-filled and remorseful, and he sighed, closing the door behind him. “At some point, it’s all gonna catch up with you, kid. Can’t run forever.”

“Sorry…I…” She shook her head, dropping the rucksack before mumbling something incomprehensible to herself, falling into a miserable silence once more, collapsing back onto the stiff bed. _What was the point in lying, to herself or to Varric. He was right._

“What happened? All that armour give you the heebie-jeebies? Because I know it does to me. Haven’t seen that many inquisition uniforms in a room since the last time I was at Skyhold, and that’s been years.” He waited, expecting _some_ kind of response, but receiving nothing, and instead moved to sit next to her. _Andraste’s left ass cheek. Here goes nothing._ “It must still be as beautiful though, crazy winter snow and all. Last time I was there was for the blessing of the Inquisitor’s new baby, and he must be at least seven years old now. Three kids, I told her she must have a death wish.”

  
Imogen bit her lip, willing herself to control the lump in her throat, the steady stream of sniffling beginning, unable to meet the dwarf’s gaze. _He knew. He had to know. Maker, how long had he known?!_ Varric’s face remained unreadable, to his credit, but he continued nonetheless. 

“I mean, sure, the Inquisitor was the very picture of motherhood, but _Curly_ …ah, he loved the shit outta those kids. They’d just had the littlest, obviously, he was just a squawking infant, and they had another boy toddling around too. He used to tell me he didn’t have favourites but…he used to take the oldest, their daughter, out on his shoulders and inspect the troops, every damn morning. Made everyone laugh, the Commander of the Inquisition parading the army with his little girl on his shoulders, but she loved it. And so did he. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and you know what? He couldn’t have cared less. Was nice to see, for a guy that _really_ needed a hobby. Who’da thought fatherhood was the answer all along.” He managed to catch Imogen’s fleeting glance, offering almost a sad little smile. “The way he looked at her… like she was the beginning and the end of his world. I tell you, there’s proud parents, and _then_ there’s Cullen.” He hesitated once more, catching the tremble of her, and sighed, a gentle hand falling to her shoulder. _There was nothing else for it._ “Even though you’re a bit bigger now kid, I don’t think anything would change that.”

And with those simple words broke the last of the control she had, doing little to contain the sobs that left her as hot tears spilled down her cheeks, chest heaving. Maker, she couldn’t do this. Not to her gentle, loving father, nor to the mother that had always placed her faith in her. What had she been thinking, running from the only place she had known as home, where warmth and safety, _love_ , had always awaited her?

“H-how long have you known?” She had not been the most _believable_ runaway, nor had her story been without its holes. Only an idiot could not have realised _something_ was up. How long was she going to believe Varric would fall for it?

“Honestly? I’ve had my suspicions for a while. Just how many runaway kids do you think there are that appear out of the Frostback Mountains? Especially mages with curly hair that are particularly good with a bow and have a remarkable knowledge of the Mage-Templar peace treaties? Besides…you never answered to _Izzy_ anyway.”

The dwarf’s voice was filled with a gentle humour that put her at ease. The path they had taken, _he must have shared it with the guard._ “You brought them here, didn’t you? The guards. My father.”

“Well…yes. I didn’t tell them _why_ just yet…” Varric stopped, watching her for a moment, before speaking again. “Look, kid. I understand how you feel, but this isn’t right. Think of it from my perspective. The whole ‘objecting to you joining the Order’ business makes a lot more sense now, you know. If anyone could tell you the truth about being a Templar, it’s Cullen. He’s trying to protect you, as much as you don’t like it, and running away to do it behind his back…it’s not the answer. It’s not what you want either, is it?”

“I thought I did…I mean…” She shuffled in place, thumbs twiddling in an anxious spin. “I still…the Order, I want to join it, but…some of the things you’ve said…and the others…” _You’ve made me doubt it all,_ is what she wanted to say.

“You starting to think this was maybe more than just your overprotective father being unreasonable?” Varric shook his head, sighing. “Just do me a favour. Speak to him. I’m too old to sit back and watch more family shit go down. Put him out of his misery.” She looked uneasy, eyes widening as the dwarf continued. “Are you going to let him think the worst forever? Because you know that’s what they think. You’ve been gone almost a month. Not many people last in the Frostbacks for a month unprepared.”  
  
“I…” The guilt was unspeakable, and she knew Varric was right. _This is wrong. It’s all wrong._ She had known that from the moment she had joined his caravan, the day that being the runaway huntress, camping in the wilds, had become a chore. _Maker, what had she done? What had she been thinking?!_ Her pride, however, refused to allow any of her thoughts to surface, and her jaw stiffened as she spoke once more. _“_ I’ll speak to him, let him know that I’m alive and…”

Varric scoffed, the hand on her shoulder dropping, a thoroughly critical eyebrow raising. “Look, I know as well as you do that there’ll be an empty place on that ship tomorrow You aren’t going anywhere” The blunt truth caught her off guard, and Imogen glanced away from him, shame in her eyes. “Kirkwall’s no place for a young girl on her own, the Viscount looking out for her or not. So you want to join the Order. The Order’ll be there another time. Listen to him first. He’s your father, he wants what’s best for you, overprotective or not. You’ve got a heart, kid. You can’t run away from your family.” He stood, nodding towards the open door. “I haven’t told him you’re here yet. I thought I’d leave that to you, alright?”

“He’s going to be furious with me.” There was the admission of fear, the truth her pride wanted to know nothing of. She could face the awkward guards, the whispers and the jeers, but facing her father and finding him angry, the father that had never so much as raised his voice at her, was a terrifying prospect.

“I’d bet more overly relieved than furious. The way I see it, you’ve not really got a choice. We’ve all got to face the music at some point, kid.”

She hated the bitter taste that came with admitting he was right.

 

* * *

 

Stood in the doorway of one of the Chantry siderooms, that bitter taste had grown into an overwhelming nausea.There had been whispers as she had ducked between the men, Varric remaining wordless as he forged a path through the bodies and down the side corridor, before stopping at the oak door, knocking, and pushing it open, leaving her to hover behind nervously. _There was no turning back from this._ Come what may, this was the path she now had to follow.

Cullen was leant over a large map, spread across the table before him, his back to the door, figure lit by the candles that burned in the night darkness. Without the bulky armour he usually wore, he was far less of the imposing figure that led an army, and much closer to the man she knew from home; _her father_. Seeing him in person felt like a punch to the gut, and she was torn between the shame and anger of their feud, and the desperation to run to him like a young child and beg him to make things _better,_ to forgive her and fix what she had done. His voice was far quieter than normal, but the gentle Ferelden lilt was so familiar that it brought on a lump in her throat. 

“Varric, look, not that it isn’t great to see you and all, but…” He sounded _exhausted_. She couldn’t see his face, but she’d have placed a large amount of silver on him looking just as tired as he sounded. “Now is really not the best of times for a catch up.”

“I know. I’ve heard. It’s all anyone is speaking about. I promise this wasn’t for nothing. You’ve been busy…”

“We have searched for almost a month. We’re leaving in the morning. For the Frostbacks. One of the search parties, they…they _believe_ they have…found a body.” Maker, the _pain_ in his voice. The guilt seemed to eat her alive; _she had done this. Varric had been right once more. He truly thought she was dead, and it was by her hand._ What must her brothers be thinking? Her _mother_? 

“Cullen, maybe you should-“

“She’s not dead, Varric. Not my girl.” There was a hint of pride layered amongst the stubbornness and the anguish, and the sting at the corner of her eyes was near impossible to ignore. She wanted to laugh, simply out of sheer disbelief. She’d ran from home, pulled him to hell and back, hidden for almost a month and yet he _still_ spoke of her with such firm pride. Her mother often shook her head and told him he was soft; she’d never have been more right than now. “She’s far too clever. Far too resourceful. I know she’s young but…If you expect me to believe that she left simply to…”

  
Varric looked to her, and her stomach seemed to knot as he spoke, offering her a gentle smile, a reassuring _‘told you so’_ hidden within it. “You did mention the resourcefulness, didn’t you kid?”

Cullen fell silent, taking a mere second to comprehend Varric’s words before he turned, whatever rant he had prepared slipping away from him as his eyes fell on her, hugging herself at the threshold of the room and nibbling the corner of her lip. Every emotion seemed to cross his face - surprise, relief, anguish, concern, all bundled into a single wide-eyed gaze, her name a hoarse, hushed whisper. The room seemed to spin in her mind, before grinding to a halt as they simply stared at one another, both unsure, uncertain, uncomfortable. She broke first - her composure slipped, and with little shame, she hung her head and began to cry, fat tears spilling down her cheeks as she sobbed. 

He moved in an instant, catching her as she reached out for him, and the tickle of elfroot, elderflower, oakmoss met her nose - the scent that was unmistakably her father. The same scent that cast her back to being a small child, crying out in darkness after wakening from night terrors, and finding comfort in the warm, gentle arms that held her, quietened her and seemed to make all right with the world for her. She buried her face into the soft cloth of his shirt, fingers winding in the material at his back, suddenly feeling not so far removed from that small child as her father’s arms encircled her tightly, cradling her against familiar broad chest. Each sobbed apology against him was met with a quiet _shush_ , and she felt the smattering of kisses he gave to the top of her head, rocking her gently with him as he soothed her.

“ _Shh…_ it’s alright, hush. Oh Maker, I am so glad to see you.” His voice was unsteady, and there was a noticeable tremble in his hold. He pressed another kiss to her forehead before leaning back  to cup her face in his hands, the delicate redness around his own eyes unmistakable as he wiped at it quickly; her father, _crying_? The fearless Commander of the Inquisition _didn’t_ cry, not that she had ever seen. “You’re filthy, Imogen, and your hair is…Are you alright?!” 

She glanced behind her, catching her breath; Varric must have slipped out unnoticed, the door firmly closed. Wiping at her eye, she nodded wordlessly, gaze remaining firmly on her feet. At the realisation that she was unharmed, and at her continued silence, there was a shift in his expression, and he took a grip on her shoulders, brows furrowing as he barked at her.

“For the love of Andraste, what were you thinking, how could you be so foolish?! You are fortune, more than you shall ever understand, that you stumbled upon Varric. Your mother has been beside herself, we feared you d…” His rant seemed to fade as she flinched, sobbing once more, and as quickly as it had appeared, Cullen’s anger had dissolved. He could not bring himself to finish the word, choosing instead to pull her into his arms once again, enveloping her in a tight hug and a kiss to her temple.

The voice that finally left her quivering lips was not her own. Meek, afraid, ashamed. “Are you very angry with me?” It sounded even worse than it had felt, her deepest fear laid bare to him. 

“Is that why you didn’t come back? Did you think we…” There was panic in his eyes as he leant back once more, and he managed to choke out an end to his words, shaking his head. “ _How_ could you think I would be so angry as to prefer you to never return, to think that you…No…No, my darling. Not now. Andraste preserve me, I am just thankful to see you alive and unharmed.

Imogen found she could barely look him in the eye, childish shame overcoming her, and sheepishly found her voice once more. “I’ve missed you…”

There was a scoff of a laugh from the man, and he gently tipped her chin so as their eyes finally met. “‘I’ve missed you too’ hardly begins to explain. Your mother and I have been so, _so_ worried…Where have you been?!”

Familiar golden colour made her feel at ease, her own eyes reflected back to her. “I’ve travelled with Varric for about two weeks, before that I was alone, camping. We were…headed to Kirkwall. I…I wanted to go.”

“ _Kirkwall?”_ His reaction was near instantaneous, surprise and fear quickly giving way to the curl of disgust on his lips. “Maker, of all places…And _Varric-_ ”

“He didn’t know anything!” She was near desperate in her defence; the dwarf deserved _none_ of the blame, particularly from a rather displeased Cullen. “I lied to him, I gave him a false name, and he… he tried to persuade me not to go. He didn’t know, I swear.”

Cullen took a deep breath, and sighed; a deep, exhausted sigh. “Alright.” There was a shift in him, Commander replacing father if only for moments. “I need to speak to him nonetheless. You need to bathe, and I need to get word to the _Inquisitor_ too _._ There are search parties that need called off, and the men need stood down.”

She found she could still not meet his gaze, her apology clawing at her throat to be heard. He was acting as though this had never happened, as if she had not screamed at him and disappeared for the best part of a month. _Maker,_ she couldn’t handle _not_ being blamed as much as she had feared his wrath. “Dad, what I said, before I left… I’m sorry, I-“

“You are not the first to do something they regret, Imogen. Nor are you the only one with apologies to make.” The gentle look her gave her, the soothing calm of his voice, quietened the panic inside, and his own remorse was layered in each word. _He’d meant what he said - he truly wasn’t angry after all._ “We will talk later, that I promise. Just you and I. But for now, you need to bathe and sleep, and I need to let your mother know you are safe.”

And with a peace she hadn’t felt in weeks, Imogen found herself nodding in agreement with no argument.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said 4 chapters...but there's gonna be a fifth. This one ended up at nearly 6k so I've split it. Whoops.
> 
> Thank you all for you support and love and kudos and comments and internet hugs...they mean a ton!


	5. Chapter 5

 

It was not as dark when she finally awoke, and with a quick glance around the dimly lit room, Imogen realised she was alone, tucked beneath a pile of furs she was not entirely sure had all been there when she had fallen asleep.

After her father had handed her to one of the Chantry sisters, they had prepared her a bath, fire rune tucked neatly in the corner of the deep tub. The warm water and crisp soap had been more than welcoming, and there had been a spare, clean tunic laid out for her, along with a comb for the wild mane that had become her hair. She watched as the darkness of the dye ran from long curls, her own golden colour returning with each soak. It was as thought it carried the weight of the past month with it, lifting from her shoulders with a warmth. After drying and wrestling it into a neat plait, she had tiptoed back to her room, her father’s voice echoing amongst the click of armour from behind a heavy door that she assumed housed the remaining guard as well as Varric. Tucking herself in, the comfort of the bed seemed to pull at her, and it was with a grateful yawn that she had slipped into the Fade.

The sunrise was barely peeking above the horizon, the first glimmers of bright morning beams dancing around the dusty room. She could sleep no longer; it had been the first night she had not been troubled by night terrors since she had left home. Slipping from the bed, she straightened her tunic, tucking the long plait back, and quietly ventured down into the main hall. There was no sign of her father, or Varric, or _anyone_ for that matter, other than the young Chantry sister that tended to the flowers in the hall, wordlessly bent over a particularly large arrangement. Imogen had barely opened her mouth when she pointed to a side room, gentle smile on her face, and shooed her towards it, insisting that all was well.

Peering around the door, relief flooded here. It was a smaller side chapel, much like the one at home in Skyhold, backed by a beautiful wall of coloured glass, patterns woven within it. Her father was knelt on one knee before the altar within, the candles of the temple still flickering as the morning sunlight began to slip through the glass windows, low, quiet voice reciting the Canticle of Trials. _Had he been here all night? Had he even slept?_

Her mother had always asked, with a hint of curiosity, what the Chant of Light meant to her, what drew her to spend time in the Chantry of her own accord, what drove her to read the great books underneath the blankets each night, lit only by a jar of veil-fire. Oh, her mother believed, but she had never been one for prayer, for the quiet Chantry chapels and the mass recitals. Her father, however, never asked, only quietly encouraged. As a young girl, she had clung to his leg as prayers were sang and canticles spoken, watching curiously from the safety of his embrace. As she had grown, she had often joined at his side in prayer of her own vocation, and they would quietly recite page after page together, with the odd gentle correction from him.

She had no answer for her amused mother, other than that the words seemed to sing to her, that her memories of her father’s voice in the chantry as a young child were so precious, and that the words brought her comfort when they passed her lips. That the Chantry walls had always filled her with a peace she could not name. Oh, the sisters and clerics were delighted to see the daughter of the Herald so faithful, but it was not for image that she ever found herself there (nor was she ever _dragged_ to the Chantry for the sake keeping up appearances, a la her younger brothers).

 

_You have grieved as I have._

_You, who made worlds out of nothing._

_We are alike, in sorrow, sculptor and clay,_

_Comforting each other in our art._

 

Her father’s voice brought her out of her thoughts, and she slipped from the doorway, padding silently across the cold floor to join him at his side, tilting her head as she pondered his choice of verse, crossing her legs and tucking them to her against the chill of the stone floor. She waited until he had paused before speaking. 

“Must be a firstborn trait, causing trouble for their fathers.”

“ _Imogen._ ” He tutted somewhat disapprovingly, but could not keep the smirk of amusement from his lips. “I do not think, when they speak of the betrayal of the Maker’s firstborn, that they ever tried to include _you_ in there.”

“At least you know I was _sincere_ when I said I was reading the Chant.”She shuffled in her spot, fingers dancing across the floor. “That’s always been your favourite, Trials 1… _though all before me is shadow…_ ”

“ _Yet shall the Maker be my guide_. Yes. It has steadied me through many… _challenging_ times.”

His words brought a silence, a pause, with neither quite sure what to say next, before she spoke, finding the courage to sit up as she looked at him, her fear from the previous night departed. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. Truly. I was angry, and I…I didn’t mean for it to become what it did. Truthfully, I hadn’t meant to stay away for more than a couple of hours, but…my pride got the better of me, and so did my imagination…at least until it was pouring with rain and I’d been gone three weeks and was cold and homesick…”  
  
Cullen nodded, watching her for a moment before he shuffled backwards, dropping from his knee to sit next to her, crossing his own legs and glancing to her. “That’s alright. I…really am just glad you are safe. The thought that something may have happened to you, that I made you run was…I am sorry too,” he sighed, glancing sideways to her, “it should not have become what it did. You were right. I treat you as though you are still a young child, and I was wrong to speak to you the way I did. I…should not have made you feel that running away was the best option. I should have _listened_. I had just turned thirteen when I left for the Order. Younger than you are now. If anything should remind me you are not a child, it is that.”

She shuffled closer to him instinctively, curiosity getting the better of her. He so rarely spoke openly about the past, particularly where the Order was involved; she could not help herself. “You were thirteen…?”

“That is old by Templar standards. Most children are taken for the Order barely out of infancy. But I was determined.” He hesitated, looking to her again, before offering her a small smile. “It…was all I had ever wanted to do. I wanted to make a difference, to help. Your Uncle Branson thought it was _funny_.”

Imogen shared his chuckle, twisting a strand of hair along her finger. “You’ve never really told me about your time as a Templar. _Never_. Varric said he knew you in Kirkwall…” There was a hint of accusation in her voice, and her father’s face clouded once more, the same pain of admission and discomfort she had felt the previous evening evident. 

“No, I have not, and for reasons that I am not proud of. I did not want to taint your image of the Order. My time there could not have been more different than what I had planned, or what the Chantry wanted. I was sent to Ferelden after my initiation. Things…went badly there. Some of the mages resorted to blood magic, the Circle fell to abominations, there was…a lot of violence and bloodshed. I was sent to Kirkwall after it, and I was…angry. _Very_ angry.” He paused, looking to her almost out of fear of her reaction, but finding only an intense, curious stare, he continued. “Kirkwall was… _everything_ that was wrong with the Order. Knight-Commander Meredith’s paranoia about the mages ended in madness, and my blind devotion to her cause, out of fear, was foolish at best. It was not the life I had imagined for myself, nor was it the path I believed the Templars should follow. Our job was to protect _all_ , mages and non-mages alike. We protected nobody in Kirkwall, and the chaos between mages and templars was our doing. The Order had failed, _I_ had failed. I am not proud of _anything_ that occurred in Kirkwall, nor the man I had become. It was the catalyst to changing myself. Why would I wish to recount my failings to you, and…risk your disappointment? I am not that man anymore. Why would I wish for you to follow a path I once too believed was _right_ , and now know was _not_. I would rather it be myself once more than see you experience all that I did.”

“Is that why you never speak of it?”

Her voice was quiet, and he gave a gruff, cold scoff, unable to meet her expectant gaze. “How could I admit to my own child that I would have feared her, once upon a time, for something she could not control? That I would have seen her, her mother, her brothers, as _threats_? The Templars are glorified by the Chantry as the _peacekeepers_ but…the brutality of the Order was not the way forward. I wish I had known that as a younger man, and it still sickens me to think that I…would have missed the joy of this life, of having the family that I do, for my beliefs.”

His admission was wrapped in sorrow, and it sat heavy within her. She could little help but to stare at the ground, sharing his uncomfortable shame. “You would have…if the Circles had not fallen…I…”

“You, and your brothers, would not have come to be. The Templars had strict rules on fraternisation, but I fear my own prejudice would have…preceded any hesitation on my part due to rules. Your mother would have remained in Ostwick, in the Circle, too. Things would have been so very different.”

She mulled his answer over, nibbling at the corner on her lip, before sighing. Imogen could not bear the awkward silence that fell between them. _She had got her explanation, had she not? Had he not spoken honestly, as she had often begged him to do?_ With a tight, knowing smile, Imogen returned his gaze.“I know Mama and I’s temper can be terrifying, and she _is_ Andraste’s chosen, but ‘threat’ is a bit far, isn’t it?”

It had the effect she had desired; an immediate loss of the fear that gripped the room. It raised a smirk in him, the sadness in his eyes seeming to melt away, whatever admonishment he expected unfounded, and he managed a relieved chuckle. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? I certainly think so now…Your mother changed me for the better. The Inquisition was my chance to atone, and your mother was…the crux of it all, even if I had not expected it. She showed me that there is good to magic, reinforced that what I had believed was wrong. She is a remarkable woman and…I would prefer you follow in _her_ footsteps, rather than my own.”

“You would rather I lost an arm to old magic and fought demons and ancient Tevinter magisters?”

Cullen scoffed as she giggled, shaking his head.  “That is _not_ what I meant, young lady, and you well know it. I meant only that your mother is a better person than I, and you would do well to listen to her.”

“Do you know that you blush when you speak about her like that?” It caught him off guard, a chuckle of acknowledgement his only reply as he reached to rub at the back of his neck before nudging her gently with his elbow, Imogen giggling again as she spoke, putting him out of his misery. “Well, _I_ like who you are.”

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, _you_ are biased.” His eyes found the towering statue before them, raising to the outstretched hands that shadowed their quiet conversation. “Your mother and I have done much to shield you from that side of this world, from all that came before your birth. Your life was going to be complicated enough from the moment you were born, you deserved a chance of normality, at least. We did what we felt was best, for you.”

“But every great change requires _someone_ to act. If not me to change things, then who? The daughter of Andraste’s mage Herald and the former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.” The passion in her words flowed from her, and she straighted up as she spoke, her own eyes on Andraste’s benevolent face. “The Divine would support me… Perhaps the only way to repair this is with sacrifice, with a new approach. I am willing to try and-“ Cullen held a hand up, stopping her, and she fell silent as a serious frown marred his face, and a bitter sigh left him, her enthusiasm quickly draining.

“We have made great improvements to the Mage-Templar relations. Your mother has worked tirelessly on making peace for both sides of the divide, and I have done what I can so far to offer the Templars an alternative, to guide them to a more peaceful governing, but…that peace is still held together by fragile bonds. Generations of corruption and violence are not healed overnight. My own deserving retribution I am willing to accept, but for you and your brothers… we wanted better. A better world, better lives. Free of duty, or of the need to _fight_. I am not yet convinced that supporting you to join the Order is following that goal, the promises your mother and I made so soon after we learnt you were to be. We _swore_ we would be the last to carry the burdens of our failures. I do not wish to see my own daughter ruined by the cycle of hatred I helped to fuel, once upon a time. It has nothing to do with a lack of faith in you, Maker knows you would be an exemplary recruit, but… I believe that the Order is not ready for a _mage_ wishing to become a Templar, to put to bed decades of oppression and prejudice, and that you…” he paused, face crumpling in a pain she could not ignore, “that _you_ are the innocent victim that will bear the brunt of all of this, that you had no part in. That, I could not allow.”

The blunt truth echoed in her ears, her father’s now clearly genuine distress finally making sense. _So this was why he was so determined to keep her from the Order. Not for some petty gain, or for overprotective nonsense._ She had so many questions still left unanswered, some she knew would be directed at her mother the next time they were alone, but for now, she would have to be content. If not the Order, then there would be an alternative. A _peaceful_ alternative, if it so suited. “I suppose I shall have to ask the Maker once more what his plans are…’The Light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water’…”

“As the moth sees light and goes toward flame… she should see fire and go towards Light,” Cullen finished, a hint of pride on the his face as he huffed. “Maker’s breath, I didn’t think the day would come when my own child used the Chant to argue against me…” His fingers drummed at his knee, a gentle smile spreading across his face. “If it is the Order you truly want to follow…Your mother has discussed…allowing you to travel to Val Royeaux, to study for a while with Madame de Fer.”

Imogen’s eyes seemed to light up near instantly, a wide grin spreading across her face. _To study? With the Grand Enchanter?_ Oh Maker, _this_ was a departure from their previous argument. The library of Vivienne de Fer at her disposal, as well as being surrounded by the brightest minds of the magi… _A dream._ If _this_ was her father’s way of making peace, of dissuading her from seeking out the Templars, she was far more agreeable than she had thought. “Do you mean that…?”

“Of course. You deserve more than to be cooped up at Skyhold, and if you are serious about honing your skills and serving the Chantry, then perhaps a _safe_ first step is with her. She would at least be able to guide you in the right direction.”

_A safe step._ “You sound hesitant,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and eyeing him with a glower, only partially sincere.

Cullen balked at her suspicion, hand finding the back of his neck again as he stammered a reply, glancing away. “Well, I….I want you to be happy, and if it’s what you want to do but… _Orlais_ of all places, and Madame de Fer is…it would be a big change and you would be…the College of Enchanters…”

“ _Dad._ ” She gave him a steely glare, one that she had honed from hours of practice from her mother, watching as he flinched under it’s scrutiny. “Is there _any_ place you would be happy with me leaving to go to?”

He was silent, and she knew, triumphantly, that she had made her point. After a moment he gave in, with a defeated slump of his shoulders. “Alright, alright. You’re not a child, I understand. If it would make you happy, then it shall be arranged. I shall just have to get used to the idea of you not being at home with us. I suppose I must let you go at _some_ point.” He paused, before lifting an arm with a chuckle, allowing her to curl into his side under it, and she moved immediately to nuzzle into the warmth of his shoulder, his arm curling around her to cradle her tightly. “I love you, little one. And for that, you shall always have to forgive me.”

The very words seemed to hum pleasantly in her heart. Imogen peered up from against him, golden eyes meeting once more. “Even… after this?” 

To her amazement, he laughed, a short, bark of a chuckle. “Maker, as if you could change that…Yes, my love. My own father once told me that the love of a father is impossible to explain, and that it bests all fears, all challenges. I always thought he was sort of…mad. But when you were handed to me, just moments old, I realised he had been right, all this time. So, yes. Now, and always. _That_ will never change.” 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and they fell into a now comfortable silence, the morning sunlight now pouring the stained glass of the Chantry window, Imogen quietly humming a prayer before Cullen spoke again. “I thought we could take a detour for a day on the way home, just you and I… It’s been a while since we last visited Lake Calenhad.”

Imogen’s eager nod was followed by a sly grin, goading him. “You mean where I taught you _how_ to fish? How many did I catch again?”

Cullen tutted,tickling her side with one hand, an amused smirk twisting across his face. “Would that be the same manner in which you _taught_ me to play chess by losing?”

She squealed against the movement, batting at his hand before grinning once more at him, glancing to the chapel door. “Do you think they have a chessboard here? I am sure I could remind you of my superiority, since it seem you have forgotten.”  
  
“I’m sure there’s one lying around that we could pilfer for our own for a while.”

“If I win, you have to carry me back to Skyhold to save me walking!”

“But if you lose, you’re making the journey in full armour and carrying the supplies.”

“You’re on.” She ducked under his arm, pulling herself to her feet as her stomach growled in near protest, and Cullen’s face curled into a knowing grin at her own sheepish one. “But maybe first….morning cocoa? _Please,_ Dad?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Phew*. Now there's a monster chapter.
> 
> So this is the first fic I've actually finished in a long, long time. There were whispers of an epilogue with Varric and the baby brothers from my beta audience. We'll see what you think...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for all your lovely comments/kudos/love. It really is so heartening as a writer to see others enjoy what you have enjoyed writing (I hope you have anyway, and you aren't just being polite!).
> 
> There are lots of drabbles on my Tumblr (cullywullycurlywurly) and I do take requests, particularly family focused ones, so hop on over and say hello!


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